Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

Was still lying for him.

The week before his next contact day was due, a shoot was cancelled at the last minute. Ben had gone out the evening before with some people from an ad agency, and as he went into the studio the next morning, he was regretting it. What had started out as a quick beer after work had developed into a full-blown whose-round-is-it-next session. At some point they’d stumbled off to a Lebanese restaurant where one of them insisted that the mezzes were to die for. Ben wasn’t wild about Middle Eastern food, but he let himself be carried along in their slipstream. It was either that or go back to the empty house.

They’d been led to their table by a waitress who was coldly unimpressed by their noisy arrival. The restaurant wasn’t busy, but she took them into a back room, as far away from the main part of it as possible. Only two tables here were occupied, a family group at one and a man and woman at the other. The man was Colin.

Ben hadn’t seen him since the anniversary party. What with work and travelling to Tunford whenever he could, he’d been too busy. And Colin had a new draw on his time himself.

The shared knowledge of his affair — and Colin’s clear shame over it — had made them both uncomfortable. Which, Ben admitted to himself, was probably the real reason they hadn’t seen each other.

But that night the drinks had diluted any awkwardness he might have felt. And also any subtlety. “Colin!” he’d exclaimed, delightedly, and it was only when he saw the guilty shock on Colin’s face that he realised that the dark-haired woman with him was young, slim and obviously not Maggie.

The girl from the record company, Ben thought. Oh fuck.

But it was too late to do anything other than keep on smiling and go over. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said, belatedly aware of how tactless that sounded.

Colin’s face was crimson. “Er, Ben, this is Jo.” Ben had said hello. The girl seemed pleasant enough, but with a cool look about her he didn’t entirely like. He had excused himself and gone back to his own table, and for the rest of the evening he had avoided so much as glancing across.

Colin had said a quick goodnight when he and the girl left, but Ben could see from his face that he was still flustered.

He regretted meeting them, not only because he knew it had spoilt their evening, but because it complicated things.

Before, he had only known about Colin’s affair in abstract terms. But having seen him and the girl together, he felt implicated in it Not that he could say he actually blamed Colin. Christ knows, he had spent long enough trying to dissuade him from Maggie before they were married. He just couldn’t bring himself to approve either.

He was thinking more about that than the day’s shoot the following morning when he arrived at the studio, until Zoe told him that it had been cancelled. The designer had fallen out with the modelling agency over unpaid bills, and been blacklisted as a result.

“You don’t seem very upset,” Zoe said, when she broke the news.

He was already wondering how quickly he’d be able to get to Tunford. “It can’t be helped.”

“I know, but that’s the third this month. It pisses me off.” The others had been postponements rather than cancellations, but Zoe took them all personally. At one time so had Ben, but not any more. He had seized those opportunities as well.

“I wondered about phoning that guy who wants some portrait stuff doing,” Zoe suggested. “The writer. He said he wanted it as soon as we could fit him in.”

Ben struggled to remember who she meant. “Oh... no, it’s too short notice.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“No, let’s leave it.” He could feel her disapproval. “I tell you what, why don’t you do it?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, why not? You’re good enough.”

“But he wants you.”

“Tell him I can’t do it. Say we’re fully booked, but you can squeeze him in yourself.”

She was looking doubtful. “Do you think he’ll go for it?”

“Like you said, it’s worth a try.” He went to put on his coat as she mulled it over.

“So what will you do instead?” she asked.

“I’ve got some things to sort out.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“No, it’s okay.” He was at the door. “Give that writer a ring and see what he says. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

She nodded, but she still didn’t seem happy as he went out.

He stopped off at an electronics shop and then headed straight for Tunford. It was late morning when he arrived at the woods. He parked in his usual place by the overgrown gate and took his bag and case with the lens in it out of the boot. An elderly couple walking a Yorkshire terrier gave him an odd look as he climbed over the fallen wall, clumsy with all the equipment. He gave them a confident smile and hoped they didn’t recognise him, or realise what he was carrying.

A light drizzle had started by the time he reached his den, so he set up the camera and lens in their weatherproof jackets. It was cold and wet in the trees, a prelude to the final close down of winter. Ben was shivering, but he still felt a buzz of anticipation as he focused on the house.

Sandra was in her bathrobe in the kitchen, partially screened by the reflection of the garden on the window. Ben fitted a polarising filter on to the lens and the glass turned transparent. It was a new acquisition, expensive, but worth it for how much glare it cut out. With that attached to the lens he could see into the house much more clearly.

He delved in his bag again and took out the compact cassette recorder and the microphone he’d bought from the electronics shop on the way. He connected them and placed the microphone against the earpiece of his mobile phone. He’d tested the set-up earlier to check that it picked up both his voice and that of whoever he was calling. The sound quality wasn’t wonderful, but he didn’t need high fidelity. Just proof.

He glanced around to make sure that the woods were empty. The last thing he wanted was some local with a dog overhearing him. Satisfied, he looked through the viewfinder again.

Sandra Kale was still in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette.

Mounted on the wall a few feet from her was a telephone. Ben had seen her answer it occasionally, although she never seemed to call anyone herself. It was at the far end of the room, but with the new filter on the lens he could see it clearly. Still looking through the camera, he set the tape recorder running and dialled the Kales’ number.

The ringing tone in his mobile coincided with an irritated glance towards the telephone from Sandra. She pushed back her chair and went to answer it.

“Hello?” The thin reproduction of her voice was synchronised with the mime of her lips. In the background he could hear the tinny jangle of a radio. It surprised him. He’d taken for granted that the kitchen would be as silent for her as it appeared to him. He glanced at the tape recorder to make sure it was running.

“It’s Ben Murray,” he said. “I thought I’d remind you that it’s my contact day this weekend.” The microphone pressed against his ear like a cold button.

It was a compromise solution he’d reached a few days earlier. He had at least to try to claim his contact rights, but he knew there was nothing to be gained by another mano a mano confrontation with Kale. This way he could prove he had made the attempt, and perhaps record Sandra saying something incriminating. The cancelled shoot was a bonus that gave him the opportunity to see her reaction as well as hear it.

He tried to disregard the accusing inner voice that sneered he was only avoiding Kale because he was afraid of him.